


Guide Me Safely Through the Night

by nerdiekatie



Series: The Weight of Living [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Under the Red Hood
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Batfamily (DCU), Christmas, Gen, Ghosts, Platonic Relationships, Resurrected Jason Todd, Resurrection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2020-10-27 21:24:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20767181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdiekatie/pseuds/nerdiekatie
Summary: "Guide me safely through the night/Until I wake with morning's light"- Children's prayerLucky for Jason, ghosts look after their own, even after they come back to life."Fingers breached the top layer of soil. [...] The assembled ghosts gasped."





	1. Martha

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to xcourtney_chaoticx, my wonderful beta, who helped me refine this  
Shout out to the amazing Maychorian, whose work inspired this and who let me rant at her about it

The dead were restless. Very little happened in the graveyard, save for new arrivals. Tonight was different. Lightning cracked and rain fell, soaking the shifting earth.

"He's alive!" Mary cried, falling to her knees and trying to dig. At first, the others only stood around and watched. Mary, after all, had been buried alive herself in 1829, only to dig herself out and die properly in 1879. She had since been a bit paranoid about checking their new residents for true death. She had checked this resident, too. (_It's sad when they're young_, she had muttered after checking the coffin). It had taken time for the boy to join them, but they had seen the truth of her words eventually. It was sad, but it was the way of life and afterlife alike. 

Watching Mary provoked a different kind of sadness in her watchers. Her madness grew with each passing year. Her descent was slow but tangible, much like her effort to manipulate the earth. The few grains of dirt she managed to fling behind her were a pitiful reward for a desperate effort. 

Then, fingers breached the top layer of soil. Dirt fell into the hole they made, attempting to obscure them again, but the fingers fought and scrabbled back. The assembled ghosts gasped. Those who had their senses fell to their knees and attempted to help Mary, weak as their efforts were. Eventually, a boy climbed out of his hole in the ground, helped by figures no one else could see. He collapsed, shaking and gulping in air with burning lungs. A gentleman in stepped out of the crowd surrounding him and knelt to examine the boy's swollen, discolored face.

"Thomas?" his wife asked anxiously. She clutched her pearls with one hand and his shoulder with the other.

"It's him," the deceased doctor said wondrously. "It's Jason."

Whispers traveled through the crowd. Those who frequently haunted the graveyard knew Jason well enough. He had taken as well as could be expected to Thomas and Martha's company, and the rest of the graveyard had been delighted to hear stories of Batman and Robin. In turn, they kept the ghost who had been given residence beside him quite far away. Even now, they did not allow themselves to be distracted by the hubbub and kept Sheila Haywood at distance.

"What do we do?" someone asked.

"Can we get help?" a suggestion was shouted. It was unlikely. None of the ghosts here could manipulate the physical world well. 

The boy on the ground moaned, startling several of them. They weren't used to urgency anymore and had forgotten the need for it now.

"Bruce." Jason pushed out the word through his chattering teeth. He looked around him, barely registering his surroundings. He pushed himself up on broken hands and started to shuffle towards the road. Thomas grabbed him and steered him away. To his great surprise, Jason followed.

"The guard shack," Martha said urgently, ushering them in the right direction. Jason was living now, and he needed living help. Walking was painful for Jason. He grunted, and groaned, and occasionally whimpered for his father. Even though it was safer, the guard shack was further than the road. Martha's dead heart hurt with every sound of pain coming from her grandson. She would have spared him if she could. 

Unfortunately for Jason, safer did not mean completely safe. The living were uncomfortable in the dark, doubly so in graveyards where the inexplicable mysteries of life and death lurked just beyond their perception. The guard had a gun, and Martha would be damned if she saw her grandson shot. 

She stepped in front of him, laying on icy hand on his cheek. "You need to call for help, darling. It's the only way." Jason blinked at her uncomprehendingly and groaned in pain again. 

Thomas looked worriedly at the boy's chest. He had an arm under the boy's shoulders, trying to support him, but it was not clear how much that was helping.

"I don't think he can yell, dear." 

They would have to take things into their own hands, then. Martha dashed ahead, screaming her head off in a way her parents would have called unladylike.

"Help! Help!" She shouted at the top of her voice, grateful, for once, that she did not need air and her vocal cords did not need a break. She needed every decibel to break through the guard on duty. She slammed her hands against the windows of the shack, praying that this would work. Miracle of miracles, the glass rattled, and the guard looked at her.

"Help!" Martha screamed. The guard ignored her, but he did step out of the shack. Hand on his gun, he swept his flashlight across the dim ground. The light caught on Jason.

"Stop where you are!" the guard shouted. Martha saw his hand tighten on the gun and flinched. 

Jason only moaned, but Thomas picked up where Martha had left off. "He's just a boy! He needs help!" 

Martha joined in his pleading until she saw the guard loosen his grip on the gun and reach up to the radio on his shoulder.

"I need an ambulance at the Crest Hill Cemetery. It's a kid. He looks bad."

Martha sagged in relief and fled back to Jason. "Stay with us, sweetheart," she said, brushing a hand through his damp bangs. When the ambulance came, Martha and Thomas tried to go with Jason. They did not make it past the gates before being sent back to their graves. The lights of Jason's ambulance flashed through the trees. Martha seized Thomas's hand.

"Bruce," she said urgently. "We have to go to Bruce." Appearing in their home was a matter of a moment's concentration. Unfortunately, Bruce was out. Martha was proud of her son (and worried, god, so worried) and of the difference he made, but they needed him here, not stalking through Gotham's street as a bat. 

The problem, as it stood, was two-fold. Home was an easy place to haunt (such a gauche word, in Martha's opinion). The manor positively dripped residue from their lifetimes- the good memories, the bad memories, the little moments in between. It was easy to _stick_ there, for the want of a better turn of phrase.

Bruce, as previously established, was not at home. Instead, he was likely doing his own haunting of a gloomy, gritty rooftop. A fine locale for sons turned bats, but not so for ghosts with no connection to such a place. Trying to appear to him there would be like trying to grasp onto a wall of glass. Walking would be easier- like slogging through waist deep muck- as long as Bruce was their destination. He was their son, and even though their _state of affairs_ was different, their connection was strong. He anchored them to this world, like toy boats on a vast and stormy ocean. 

Searching the city step by agonizing step would be easier, if Jason had the time for it. Mr. Pennyworth was likely just in the cave below, but reaching out to him was more difficult than reaching out to Bruce. Mr. Pennyworth, dear as he was to their boy, simply was not enough to anchor them. Getting to him would take just as much energy as finding Bruce while he was out god-knew-where. Martha exchanged a glance with her husband.

"Split up?"

"I'll talk to Bruce."

He was gone in a moment. Martha steeled herself, walking down the passageway into the cave. Each step was a trial. By the end, she felt like she was dragging weights behind her.

"Mr. Pennyworth!" she panted as she reached his seat in front of the computers. "Alfred!" She could her son on his screens. Thomas was a blip, a faint discoloration by his shoulder, easily dismissed.

"Please, you must tell him to go to the hospital." Mr. Pennyworth did not hear her. She laid a hand on his shoulder. He shuddered lightly, but he still remained ignorant of her words. She pleaded with him until she felt like she was about to disintegrate. With a sinking feeling of defeat, she closed her eyes and released her hold on the here and now.

* * *

Martha reconstituted with the morning dew, just as ephemeral. Thomas sat on her headstone, waiting for her. She reached out and grabbed his hands.

"How did it go?" she asked quietly. He only shook his head. Worry gripped Martha, and she fell into Thomas's embrace. Yes, Jason was having his wounds cared for. Yes, he was safe for now. But, they both had their doubts about whether the hospital would connect the living boy in their care to the dead boy in the papers. Without his family, how would Jason fare? Martha feared the answer.

"One of us must go to him," she murmured into her husband's chest. She felt him nod into her hair.

"Tonight," he told her. "Once you've regained your strength."

When evening fell and the city existed only under the orange street lamps, Martha reached out for Jason. It was not a smooth process- she felt herself go in bits and pieces until she was stumbling dizzily at the foot of a hospital bed.

"Jason? Sweetheart?" she called out. She used the bed railing the make her way towards his head. She wondered if she would be this out of breath if she had lungs. Jason was unrecognizable when she looked down at him. The harsh, halogen lights didn't make him look any better than the graveyard had. His head was wrapped in bandages, and she doubted there was an unbruised inch of skin. He had been brought back, but only barely. She reached out to touch his cheek. He did not stir, nor did the monitors give any sign of awakening.

"Jason," she said insistently, laying her whole palm against his face. Still nothing. Wearily, she dragged herself to end of his bed where his chart lay. She focused her eyes on the scrawled words, trying to stay together long enough to understand. She was not the doctor, but one word was clear enough.

Coma.

She closed her eyes and let go.

* * *

Jason was in a coma for four weeks. Thomas checked in on him every few days. He was the doctor, after all. From what he told Martha, the coma was to be expected from those type of injuries. His doctors said he was lucky to be alive. They had no idea how much.

Martha followed Bruce around constantly. She had the advantage of not being exhausted by hospital trips like her husband, so she was the persistent voice in her son's ear. She could swear she was making a difference- Bruce seemed to steer a little closer to the medical district every night. He was just was not close enough.

He had better things to do than listen to his mother, it seemed. There was a new boy in the house. Tim, she had gathered. She had been witness to his frightening first attempt at vigilantism, and Bruce subsequently acquiescing to train him. He was not Robin yet, but he would be, in time. She wondered how Jason would feel about that when he woke up. The poor boy loved being Robin. At least Dick came around, once. He was more receptive to her than his father, although, to her great frustration, he continually confused her for Jason when she tried to catch his attention.

Nightwing was not here tonight. Young Timothy had already been sent home. Tonight, it was just she and Bruce, flying above Gotham's dark streets. It wasn't something she had ever done in life, but it was strangely freeing. Bruce used his grapnel gun to ascend to rooftop. Martha floated up beside him. The robbers- run of the mill, poorly armed- were silent below them. They were unconscious, for certain, and Martha thought of Jason and his poor, wrapped head. She hoped it would not come to that. As it was, they would have to contend with their broken bones from behind bars. 

Martha listened as Bruce called in his catch. To a living person, it might be background noise. To Martha, every moment of her son's voice was precious. She would be without it, one day. What would she do with eternity without her son? He could join her, but she hoped he didn't. Watching over him and the children was a balm, but her existence was remarkably dreary. And without a living anchor… well, some things were best not discussed, even among ghosts.

Bruce turned sharply. Martha almost missed it. She had been keeping up with the living for four weeks, but some things still took her by surprise. The bat signal was lit. They made their way to the GCPD in a hurry. Bruce lingered in the shadows. Martha shook her head fondly. He had always been a dramatic child. She had once harbored hope of seeing him on a stage, reciting Shakespeare. That had been a long time ago.

"Commissioner," he said lowly, never fully stepping out of the darkness. Jim Gordon startled but didn't give any other sign that he had been surprised. He turned off the bat signal with practiced fingers. He reached into his coat and handed over a sheet of paper.

"Hospital called," he said. Bruce took the paper and slipped it into his utility belt. "Said there's a boy there asking for the Batman. Beat all to hell, too." He sounded upset, and Bruce frowned. Martha knew a case with a child would weigh on them both, but her heart lifted.

"Bruce, it's Jason!" She threw herself onto him, hugging tightly. He was awake at last, and Thomas must have gotten through to him.

"Don't scare the kid with your-" Gordon gestured at what he could see of the suit and cowl. He glanced away in contemplation. "He's been through enough."

Bruce was gone before he finished speaking. Muttered curses followed him into the night as he landed on a nearby roof. He examined the details on the paper Gordon had given him. Martha smiled widely. Gotham General was Jason's hospital. Bruce frowned more deeply as he read. Martha wondered if the injuries were familiar to him. God knew how he had tortured himself over them in the aftermath. She reached out to touch his frown lines.

"It's okay," she reassured him. "He's okay now." Bruce did not look any happier, but he stowed the paper and headed toward the hospital. They entered through the window, of course. Martha phased through the glass while Bruce slid the pane open. Thomas lingered by Jason's head. He was transparent and spread thin to Martha's eyes, tired from reaching through to Jason. He must have been waiting for their arrival. When he saw them, he smiled weakly and faded away. She would see him tomorrow. Her concern now was Jason. 

She put a hand on Bruce's shoulder and the other on his elbow, trying to rush him to Jason's side. He crept forward at his own pace, unmoved by her efforts. Jason looked like he was asleep. Bruce stopped to read his chart, gathering as much information as possible. Doubtlessly, he was also giving the child in the bed a few more moments of sleep. When he was done he moved forward silently. Martha flew to the other side of the bed before he could occupy her space. Bruce leaned over the railing and gasped.

"Jason?" Martha wiped at her eyes furiously, even though her tears never felt wet. Bruce pressed a tender, shaking hand to the boy's curls and slid down to cup his cheek. Jason shifted minutely, leaning into the leather.

"Bruce?" he mumbled. He looked at his father through slitted, hazy eyes. Bruce's voice cracked, and he leaned forward to press his forehead against the boy's.

"Son."


	2. Bruce

Bruce ran the probabilities on this being a bad idea even as he closed the door to Jason’s hospital room and moved the stiff hospital couch in front of it. It would not hold against Batman’s normal villains, but it will serve well against the hospital’s staff. 

Bruce wrote a note to the staff and left it on the heart monitor, telling them Batman was taking this John Doe into his care. They will not be able to miss it there. Of course, he will need to give Gordon a better explanation, but hopefully Gotham will not think any less of him.

Bruce’s hands were steady only because of his training as he eased the IV needle out but left IV catheter in. Intravenous nutrition was still necessary at this stage in Jason’s recovery. With both of his legs in casts, the urinary catheter also had to stay in. Bruce expected embarrassment, but Jason watched the procedure with vague indifference. For a moment, Bruce’s eyes were drawn to the simple EEG monitor wrapped around curly, dark hair like a headband. He forced himself to look away. He could worry later; right now, getting him home was more important. 

He preemptively wrapped his cloak around his son; the white hospital gown was no good for staying warm or hidden. Finally, he slipped off the monitors that would alert the staff to changes in Jason’s condition. He carried his boy to the open window and tightened his grip as much as he dared. He fired his grapnel gun, and they shot off into the night. Behind them, the door knob rattled. 

As a nurse in Gotham General called for help, Batman gently laid a broken boy in the backseat of the batmobile. He was done with patrol for the night. He was taking Jason home. 

Bruce called Alfred on the way home. His eyes flickered back to Jason in the backseat. He had fallen asleep. 

“Master Bruce,” Alfred answered promptly. “Am I to believe the cameras?” He heard a faint wobble that belied the stoic tone. He was watching through the cowl’s lenses. Of course he was. 

“I’m bringing him home,” he confirmed. His heart was out of control in his chest, beating in a way it did not even against his most deadly opponents. Jason was alive. He was injured. But he was alive. Questions ran through his head, the why and the how. His mind assembled a case for him, even as he grappled with the fact that _ Jason was alive. _

Alfred’s small gasp sounded incredibly loud in the quiet of the car. “Can we be sure-?” he asked. 

Bruce was sure. Bruce had never been more sure of anything in his life. Every time he started to doubt, there was a voice reassuring him that it was Jason, it was his son. 

As a concession to Alfred’s logic, he added, “We’ll do the necessary tests.” Bruce usually shared the same logic, but not tonight. Tonight was beyond logic, when his dead son was returned to him. 

When they reached the batcave, Bruce carefully lifted Jason out of the batmobile. His eyes opened, and Bruce saw their hazy blue color as they caught on his cowl before shutting again. He laid Jason down on the medical cot Alfred had prepped, hooking up the IV immediately. Alfred froze for an almost imperceptible moment as Jason’s face caught him by surprise. 

“It’s him,” Bruce said confidently. 

“We shall see, sir,” Alfred responded, and then it was as if he never had paused at all. Together, they compared Jason’s injuries to his chart. After four weeks in the hospital, even his burns had already healed and scarred. They can take care of his remaining injuries at home. It was a good thing, but Bruce’s stomach clenched at the thought of Jason being so close all this time. 

He untied the front of the hospital gown to check Jason’s broken ribs. Abruptly, he flinched away and sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. The scar was tidy. Surgical. The raised red lines spoke to the depth of the incision, splitting the boy’s chest in half until it reached his collarbone and branched into a y-shape. 

It was an autopsy scar. He shared a glance with Alfred, asking him with his eyes how the old man could doubt with this particular evidence before them. Although Alfred looked similarly shocked, he still proceeded to thoroughly check the boy’s identity. Bruce sat and held Jason’s hand while he waited. He never thought he would get this chance again. Did he hold his son’s hand often enough while he was alive? He could not remember. 

Alfred’s other methods of double-checking Jason’s identity came through one by one while they waited for the DNA analysis to finish. The computer confirmed a print match for his fingers and feet. Then, it confirmed the dental records. They identified his birthmarks and old injuries themselves. Two hours in, the computer alerted them again, this time to a full genetic match for Jason Peter Todd. 

Even though Bruce never doubted, he still was overcome by a wave of relief. He bent over, forehead nearly flat against the cot, and gently kissed the back of Jason’s hand. He heard Alfred whisper above him, soft exclamations of thanks and praise. 

He lifted up his head again and wiped his eyes. “We should move him upstairs,” he said around the lump in his throat. Jason would be more comfortable in his own room. The manor proper was warmer than the cave, and Jason had always despised the cold. 

“A fine idea,” Alfred agreed hoarsely. “I will see to that, while you change out of the suit and inform Master Richard.” 

His tone brooked no argument, but Bruce tried anyway. He sighed. “Alfred-” Dick was probably on patrol. Or sleeping. And he would not want to hear from Bruce anyway. Somehow, their relationship had gotten even worse since Jason’s death, Tim’s presence notwithstanding. 

“He will want to hear from you,” Alfred rebutted, gathering medical supplies onto a cart, “And as soon as possible.” He disappeared into the elevator, leaving Bruce alone with Jason and his thoughts. 

Bruce changed out of the suit first. He detoured by Jason’s bed on the way to the batcomputer, brushing a hand through his hair. He made himself leave. The sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could come back. 

He sat heavily in the desk chair and used the computer to call Dick’s cellphone first. It rang, destroying his faint hope that this would be the one time the computer failed to get a signal through the cave’s walls. Then he could waste a few hours trying to fix the hardware before trying again. 

The call went to voicemail. He took a breath and let it out slowly before trying the comm network. Did Dick even wear a comm these days?

“Batman,” Dick answered tersely. “What do you need?” 

Out of habit, Bruce stopped himself from wincing. It was true that he did not call Dick unless he needed something. It had been that way since Dick stopped answering for anything else. 

“I need you to come home,” he said. Immediately, he knew that was the wrong thing to say. 

“I need to be here,” Dick was saying angrily. “You can’t just order me around-”

“It’s Jason,” Bruce interrupted, breaking his own rule about names in the field. 

“It’s Ja- what does that even mean?” his eldest son demanded. 

Bruce had no idea how to explain that. “Come home,” he repeated and hung up. He sat back and pinched the bridge of his nose. That could have gone worse. 

He took Jason’s hand again. Tonight felt like a dream. He was afraid he would wake up, and Jason would still be dead, just like he had been for the past seven months. But Jason’s icy hand was real, as was the puff of damp cave air that briefly slid past the bed. Bruce grabbed a blanket and settled it over him as Alfred came down to announce his room was ready. 

They took him up in the elevator and transferred him carefully, trying to avoid jostling and waking him. He needed rest to heal. His various bags got tied to the poles Alfred had brought from the cave. He could hardly roll to tangle his lines, not with his limbs in casts, but they surrounded him with pillows regardless. A specialized, angled pillow went underneath him to reduce the pressure on his ribs. 

When Bruce took a seat beside the bed, Jason’s eyes were open. He must have woken up while they were settling him. Jason looked from the bookcase to the curtains to Alfred, still busying himself about the room, and finally, to Bruce’s face. He visibly relaxed and sank into his mattress. 

Bruce’s heart got a little bit lighter. This was no dream. Jason was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment and I'll love you forever


	3. Dick

Anger pounded in Dick’s veins. He wanted to rip his comm out and throw it across the city. Bruce called him out of the blue and he had the nerve to-

The sounds of a fight distracted him. Good. He needed one. He ran and flipped his way across the rooftops until he found a small brawl between some rival gang initiates. Jesus, they barely had any skin in the game, and they were already bleeding for the colors. 

He dropped down on the street corner and started in. He did not need his brain for this one, which was good. He was too busy thinking over his call from Bruce. 

He should not be surprised that he hung up like that, but he still was. His former guardian treated him like a child to this day, despite the fact that Dick had lived on his own for years. 

Dick dodged a knife to the gut and jabbed out at an elbow. The hand holding the knife went limp. 

And Bruce hanging up did not even cover the bombshell he had dropped.

_ It’s Jason _. 

What did that mean? Was it something to do with the Joker? Did someone mess with Jason’s body? Was Bruce drugged, or had he gone crazy? 

Thinking through the possibilities just made him sick. He finished the fight, zip-tied the kids for the police to grab, and called it in, scrambling up to higher ground to wait. 

When the blue and red lights were on their way back to the precinct, Dick tried his comm. 

“Penny-One?” he asked hesitantly. Alfred would know what was going on. 

“Nightwing,” the butler answered warmly, if professionally. “How may I assist you?” There was the sound of a door shutting. Why was Alfred upstairs so early? His concerns about Bruce’s mental state re-doubled. 

“Batman called,” he said. There was a faint, pleased sound over the line, but no information was forthcoming. “He said something about… Jason.”

His last word was hushed and quiet. Jason was too raw for all of them. Dick had a brother, and he totally fucking blew it. He had been trying more with Tim, even if it put him back in the cave. He could handle Bruce, if it meant avoiding another dead Robin.

There was silence on the line before Alfred broke it. “And he did not elaborate?” 

Alfred was too well-mannered to sigh in disappointment, but Dick felt the sound in his soul when he confirmed that Bruce did not elaborate. 

“Master Jason is alive,” Alfred said, and Dick felt his stomach drop. Dead people did not come back to life. He must have made a sound, because Alfred was following up with, “Should you come back to base, you shall see for yourself.” 

As if Dick could stay away. No, whatever was going on was messing with more than just Bruce. Dick needed to put a stop to it. 

“I’ll be there in an hour,” he said and hung up. 

* * *

The bike screeched as he brought it to a halt inside the cave. He jumped off, running to the waiting butler. Alfred always had been uncanny like that. 

“What is going on?” Dick asked. The hour’s ride had not made sense of anything. 

“How nice to see you again,” he admonished gently. If Dick were not going out of his mind with worry, he might feel ashamed. He did miss Alfred when he was away. “As I said- Master Jason is alive. Currently, he is upstairs and resting.”

He presented a file and Dick skimmed through it quickly. Then, he sat down on the floor and read it more thoroughly. They were tests- prints, dental work, blood work- all right here, and they matched Jason. They were taken tonight. 

He looked up at Alfred, confusion and hope warring in his heart. He felt like a child begging for an adult to explain this to him. Maybe he was.

“Perhaps seeing the security footage will explain things,” Alfred said. He helped Dick stumble over to the computer and remained a comforting presence over his shoulder while Dick watched the two of them care for Jason. Like them, he sucked in a breath when the autopsy scar is revealed, but he watched in silence otherwise. 

When Jason’s cot disappeared into the elevator, Dick stood unsteadily. “I have to see him,” he said. Dick felt the world turning around him, all topsy-turvy like a carnival game. 

“All in good time,” Alfred said, and Dick did not understand how he could be so calm when Jason was just upstairs. He made a noise of protest, and Alfred’s tone got firmer. “No uniforms upstairs.” 

It was a rule Dick had followed since he was nine years old, and he thought a leotard was adequate protection on the streets. So when Alfred handed him neatly folded sweats, he changed without thinking. 

The old butler guided him upstairs like he was an upset child in need of comfort. Maybe he was- he felt so small when they stopped in front of Jason’s door. His hand shook when he reached out to touch the doorknob. 

“He’s really in there?” his voice brittle as he asked. He had only been in Jason’s room once since he died. All his things had been there, tidy and waiting for him, but without Jason, the room felt empty. Dick could not face that again. He would break.

“He really is,” Alfred confirmed. Dick glanced up at the lined, grandfatherly face. Knowing Alfred, he probably had been cleaning Jason’s rooms weekly, like he did with all the used rooms in the manor. He was stronger than all of them. 

Dick swallowed and nodded. He gathered his courage and opened the door. Bruce sat on the other side. The room was dim, but the light from the tablet in his hands threw his face into relief.

Dick blinked at him, meeting his gaze for a moment. He could confront him about that shitty phone call, but that was just a passing thought before he stepped closer and looked at the body on the bed. 

Except it was not a body. The chest rose and fell, the monitor showing a steady pulse. Dick walked closer on silent feet until he could see the face he thought he would never see again.

Dick crumpled to his knees. His eyes felt tight and watery, and he had to swallow around the lump in his throat. Bruce was beside him in a second, arm slung under Dick’s shoulders to support him. Dick allowed the support as he reached a trembling hand towards Jason’s face. With the barest touch, he skimmed the warm, alive skin and brushed a curl away. 

“Jay,” he whispered. Bruce moved his arm so that he was rubbing small circles into Dick’s back. Dick realized he was shaking when Bruce started making small shushing noises.

More than anything, Dick wanted to seize tightly onto his little brother and never let go. But the lines were in the way, and he could see the shape of the casts underneath the blankets, so Dick seized Bruce instead, burying his face in his shoulder. He shook himself to pieces at a bedside altar to miracles, safely in his father’s arms. 

* * *

Eventually, they dragged a second chair into the room. Dick stared at Jason while thoughts tumbled through his head. He would move into the manor, at least for now. He would love to keep his apartment, just in case, but he had been paying for it out of his day job, and he would have to quit. He could suck up his pride and ask Bruce for help, but the thought made his mouth go sour.

The whole point of being in Bludhaven was to get away from Bruce and his need to control everything. Even being in the manor again would be pushing it, but Jason was worth it. 

He would not waste a second chance. 

Dick was lost in his head, but he straightened up when the door opened and Superman sped through. In a totally human reaction, Clark stumbled when he saw who was on the bed. Dick assumed that X-ray vision through the wall must not be the same as actually seeing him. 

“Clark?” Bruce asked. He set aside the tablet, and Dick realized that he must have used it to contact him. Rather than risk disturbing any lines, Clark chose to float over the bed and examine Jason’s face. 

“It’s him,” he breathed in wonder. 

“Superman,” Bruce said sternly. He wore the same stillness he embraced as Batman. If not for the faint flexing of his hands, he could have been carved from stone.

Clark turned his head and floated to the floor. “I did what you asked,” he said. He turned back to look at Jason. The furrows between his eyebrows looked even more pronounced in the shadowy room. He hesitated, and Bruce shifted uncomfortably in the silence. “It was empty.” 

There was something he was not saying. “And?” Bruce prompted.

Clark sighed. He swung his head back to Bruce. “It was broken out of.” 

Dick was trying to put the conversation together. They were talking around something, and his heart sank with foreboding. 

“Out of?” That was the World’s Greatest Detective, asking clarification on a case. His voice was devoid of emotion. 

“From the inside,” Clark confirmed. “I saw…” He shuddered and took a breath to steady himself. “There was a belt buckle. The damage was consistent with that. And…” 

“And?” Bruce prompted again. the answer was right there, niggling at the front of his mind. He was not sure he wanted to know the answer. 

“Fingernails,” Clark added hesitantly. 

Dick leaped to his feet. He felt like throwing up. “You asked him to look at the _ casket _?” He could not help the way his voice rose. “Fuck, Bruce!” Jason stirred at the noise. All eyes turned to him, watching. Jason settled back down into the pillows, and the room exhaled in relief. 

Dick tamped down on his more explosive reactions. He would not disturb Jason’s rest. 

“Yes, I did,” Bruce said, and Dick could swear that was a challenging tone in his voice. Well, fuck him. 

He turned away. “Clark, I am so-” 

Clark laid a hand on his shoulder, cutting him off. “It’s okay,” he said. “I understand.” He addressed Bruce. “You needed to know.” 

It was not okay. Jason had called him Uncle Clark, and Bruce asked him to go look at a dead child’s casket. That was not fucking okay. 

“Diana will want to see him,” Clark said, talking to Bruce and removing his hand from Dick’s shoulder. 

He waited for Bruce’s begrudging nod before heading towards the door. He turned back, adding, “This is a good thing. Remember that,” before he was gone.

* * *

When the pre-dawn light began sneaking through the window, Dick allowed Alfred to usher him into a real bed. He could resist- what if he woke up and it was a dream?- but Alfred coped by mother-henning and clearly he'd targeted Dick. Despite Alfred's efforts, he was awake and stumbling into Jason's room before noon. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw he was still there. 

Bruce glanced up at Dick when he entered and returned to staring pensively at Jason. 

"Good morning," he said stiffly. Dick looked at the monitors. If Bruce was not going to look at him, he would not look at Bruce either. "Did you sleep well?"

"Fine," Dick returned dismissively. "Did he wake up?" 

He risked a glance at Bruce, whose face had darkened. "Not since we moved him here," he said. Dick was okay with field medicine, but that was as far as his knowledge went. He picked up Jason’s chart anyway and skimmed through it. He winced at some of it, but he still could not tell if Jason should be awake right now. 

There was a soft knock at the door before Alfred entered. “Breakfast is served,” he announced. Dick was hungry, but he lingered along with Bruce. “You will do the young master no good if you neglect yourselves.”

It was an implicit order that Dick followed. Jason had been fine all last night. He would be fine for another ten minutes. 

* * *

Dick tried to wolf his breakfast down. He got in three bites that way before Alfred glanced disapprovingly at him, and he slowed down. In contrast, Bruce ate so slowly that he was almost toying with his food. Alfred and his manner lessons were probably the reason Bruce was not. He frowned when his plate was empty and he had to put his fork down. Dick caught his small exhale. 

“I have to… go to Wayne Enterprises,” he said lowly, like the words are being pulled out of him against his will. Dick would know. Truth serums suuucked. 

“You can’t stay?” Dick shot back. “We just got him back.” 

Bruce’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed and his jaw clenched before he worked it loose. 

“I know that,” he said gruffly. He was silent for a moment. “Would you-”

Dick was insulted that he even needed to ask. “I’ll watch him. Someone needs to,” he spat out, somehow even more harshly than he intended. He stood up so quickly that he had to catch his chair before it fell on the floor. He put it back in place sheepishly and offered Alfred an apologetic expression. The old man seemed mollified, at least. 

He caught up with Dick in the hallway, before he could go far. “Master Dick,” he said. He offered out two jars of medicated creams. “These need to be applied to Master Jason. As I am required to drive Master Bruce, I thought you might like to undertake the task.” 

Dick took the jars from the butler before he could finish, but he did not interrupt him. He knew better. 

“Of course, Alf,” he said. Having something to do would make him feel better. He hated being helpless. Despite their differences, he and Bruce were alike in that regard, of which Alfred was well aware. 

He babied the jars on his way up the stairs. He could not risk dropping them. When he reached Jason’s room, he sat down on the other side of the carefully erected pillow barrier.

He read the labels on the jars by lamplight. It was more light than he usually had to work with, honestly. Both were for scarring, but one was for burns and the other was specifically for hypertrophic tissue.

He felt eyes watching him and double-checked that Jason was asleep. He glanced around the room. No one else was there. Not surprising- the manor’s security was top notch. Unworried, Dick turned back to Jason. The presence was calm and unthreatening. There was nothing to worry about. Wayne Manor had been haunted since Dick had started living there.

Dick had watched the footage and read the chart, but he still had to brace himself. He inhaled deeply and exhaled through his teeth before he gently started to undress Jason so he could access the scars. The wine-red incision on his chest grabbed Dick’s attention first, so he grabbed the cream for hypertrophia. He warmed it on his fingers before tentatively applying it to the skin.

The scar was raised and ropey, but it was just skin. As he massaged cream into the length of the scar, Dick’s movements became more confident even though his chest was getting tighter. Bruce popped in before he left. They acknowledged each other with nods and said nothing. 

Dick switched to the burn cream when he left. His eyes got tense and itchy as he worked. The burns covered so much of the skin on Jason’s back. Dick was careful with every inch, not wanting to tear the still delicate skin with his nails or harsh movements.

He did up the buttons on Jason’s pajama top when he was finally done. The top was far too large for him, and he never had been one for fancy pajamas besides. It was probably Bruce’s, Dick thought and blinked back the moisture that had gathered at the corners of his eyes. 

He stayed on the edge of the bed and grabbed Jason’s hand. He moved his thumb to the pulse point, so he could feel it for himself. When he saw the empty fingernail beds on his first two fingers, he lost it. 

“Little Wing,” he choked out. Tears started streaming down his face. “I’m so goddamn sorry.” He shuddered, the enormity of it all bearing down on him. “I should have been there. I should have come around more. I should have been a better brother. I’m so, so sorry.” 

His vision was blurred so badly that he could not tell if his loud wailing had woken Jason. Even if Jason was awake, it would not have mattered- now that he had started, he could not stop himself. 

“I didn’t even make it your funeral-” And that was the bare minimum of brotherhood, right? “You deserved so much better. I had all these plans, but none of them mattered.” Not when his plans were always for later. Jason did not get a later. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he pleaded, as he cried, and cried, and cried. 


	4. Tim

Tim arrived at Wayne Manor after school, as had become routine in the past few weeks. Mr. Pennyworth usually waylaid him with a light meal before permitting him to go to the guest room- well, he supposed it a guest room? Tim knew a family wing when he saw one, but he wasn’t fool enough to think the placement was anything but convenience.

Regardless, the room had a desk, privacy for changing into workout clothes, and a real shower. Tim was very careful to keep it clean. He was a guest, after all, and he did not want to make trouble.

The house felt different when he let himself in today. It was nice to have the codes, so he didn’t have to wait at the gate when it was so cold. And even though it was November, Tim knew it would have nothing on January in Gotham. In January, it was so cold that the wind seemed to slice through your bones. Tim wondered if Mr. Wayne had some breathing technique for overcoming the cold- for a vigilante who did so much punching, he had a lot of breathing techniques.

Wayne Manor was warm, despite the late autumn chill outside. And it seemed… changed, somehow. Yesterday, the manor had seemed a lot like a mausoleum to Tim. His own home was empty, cold, and quiet, but it felt like a department store where all the pieces were waiting to be used. Outside the kitchen and the cave, Wayne Manor had been a different kind of cold- a rose covered in ice, beautiful with the remnants of life but no longer living.

Except now, the warmth that had been the domain of the kitchen seemed to have spread. Tim noticed it as he took off his coat and hung it in the closet. It was a promise, it seemed to Tim. A promise of something more.

Tim wondered what that could be.

The kitchen seemed normal when Tim entered. Alfred was there, and he smiled at Tim as usual. No, not quite as usual. Usually he was pleased to see Tim. He gave a smile that was well within the bounds of decorum, a curve of the lips and no more. Today, Alfred was plainly, blatantly happy. The smile he gave Time was broad and cheerful, though still closed. Tim accepted the bowl of soup placed in front of him, and he noticed that Alfred was ladling still more out into a bowl.

“Is Dick here?” Tim asked hopefully. He had to be. Who else would the soup be for? It was weird that Dick was here on a weekday. Maybe he had changed his mind about being Bruce’s partner again. Oh, well. It had been fun while it lasted. Hopefully, Tim would get to say hello again before he had to say goodbye.

“Master Richard arrived last night,” Mr. Pennyworth answered. He practically beamed at the young boy at the table. “Master Jason returned to us, and Master Richard is tending to him upstairs.”

Tim, who had picked up his spoon to eat, dropped it into his bowl with splash. He gaped unbecomingly at the butler.

“Jason?” he asked incredulously. His lips felt numb and clumsy as he forced out, “Jason is-”

“Alive,” Mr Pennyworth supplied, when Tim’s words did not come. “And upstairs.” He searched Tim’s soul with just his eyes. “I have gathered you are quite a fan of the young master. Your soup will keep. If you wish, you may accompany me, and I will make introductions.”

Tim scrambled off his chair, bizarrely afraid that Mr. Pennyworth would leave him behind if the tray was ready before he was. He shifted from foot to foot, earning an amused raised eyebrow as Mr. Pennyworth finished the tray. Only his manners stopped him from being entirely underfoot as he closely trailed behind the butler on their way upstairs.

His mind boggled. He had followed Jason for the entirety of his Robin career. He had admired the way he took the Robin mantle and made it his own. His straightforward style of fighting was so different from Dick’s acrobatics, his quips more sarcastic and biting than punny, and while Dick had been kind to the victims, Jason had created an instant trust with them.

Tim could not even relate to his own parents.

They stopped in front of a door in the family wing. Tim had never been in this room. He had only been around the manor for a few weeks, but he had quickly gotten the memo that no one went into this room. Tim was not brave enough to challenge that, especially now when he half-suspected this was a trick of an old man’s mind for all that Mr. Pennyworth seemed normal.

The butler opened the door with practiced ease, tray perfectly balanced, Tim slipping in cautiously behind him. The room was clean and tidy. Dick was there, as promised, as was a boy sleeping on the bed. Even from the doorway, Tim could recognize him.

Jason.

Dick looked up when they entered and then stood when he saw who was there.

“Hey, Tim,” he said, pulling the boy into a quick, loose hug and ruffling his hair. Tim let him, even though he felt awkward hugging Nightwing. Dick had hugged him hello and goodbye the last time the vigilante had been by the manor. Tim did not understand why he hugged him, but it seemed to make Dick happy.

Mr. Pennyworth, meanwhile, had breezed by to set the food tray on the desk.

“Should I prepare a second tray?” he asked, with a glance at Jason. Dick shook his head and moved closer to speak with Mr. Pennyworth quietly.

Which left Tim to his own devices. He looked around the room. It was red. Really red. The curtains, the bed spread, the bookcases… all red. The room was tidy, but there was no way to know if Jason or Mr. Pennyworth kept it that way. Tim drifted over to read the titles on the shelves. He realized with surprise that he and Jason organized their books the same way- by subject and then by author.

The breadth of the material was more than Tim had expected. He had the books anyone would expect for the partner of the World’s Finest Detective. There were forensics of all kinds- chemistry, psychology, accounting- books on logic and puzzles, Sun Tzu’s The Art of War wedged between thicker texts, books on focus and meditation, an emergency responder manual…

But there were also books that Tim was sure were Jason’s choices. Jules Verne, Jane Austen, and Arthur Conan Doyle. Sociology journals next to the classic fiction. Books Tim vaguely remembered being on the NYT top 100.

When Tim finished looking at the bookshelf, Mr. Pennyworth and Dick were still talking. He had no excuse to procrastinate meeting Jason anymore.Could you meet someone who was asleep? Tim wondered as he crept quietly over to the bed. He was sure Mr. Wayne would have something to say about his technique, though.

Except for the casts and the IV line and the smell of medicated cream in the air, Jason looked almost the same as he had the last time Tim had seen him at Gotham Academy. He had faint freckles that no one would notice unless they were looking closely. His eyes creased as Tim watched. He thought it was a dream at first, but then Jason’s eyelashes began to flutter.

“Dick,” he called, and at the moment Jason’s eyes snapped open. Immediately, they locked onto Tim’s face. He opened his mouth-

And screamed.

Tim leaped out of the way as Dick and Alfred pushed their way in, but Jason’s eyes followed him. He kept screaming, a screech straight from hell. His eyes and mouth were open wide in primal fear, unswayed by his family’s attempts to help.

Tim could not bear it. He fled the room, the manor, the grounds. All the way home, he felt those horrible eyes watching him.

Tim dove under the covers of his bed. He kicked off his shoes while he bundled himself up, shaking violently. That was… That had been…

Just a few weeks ago, Tim had rescued Batman and Nightwing from Two-Face. He had to stuff his fear down during the rescue, but afterwards, his hands had shaken, despite Tim telling his body that he needed to be calm in front of Batman or he would never take him as a Robin.

Tonight was different. Tim had been so, so scared that night that Two-Face would kill all three of them, but Jason… Jason had scared a different part of him tonight. Tim tried to analyze it as he shivered like a leaf in bed, but all he found was that the fear ran deep and primal, just like the fear of death.

Tim’s shaking eased enough for him to realize two things: one, he was hungry; two, he had left all his things at Wayne Manor. He sighed. He really did not want to go back after the way he had left. What kind of hero ran away from something like that? Did Tim have any business being Robin?

  
That was a moot point, anyway. Jason would take back Robin once he was better, and Tim would go back to being the neighbor boy.

A rapping noise came from the window, and he poked his head out of the blankets to take a look. The pitch black depths of the night told Tim that hours had passed since he had fled Wayne Manor. He got out of bed and threw open the window, letting in a blast of cold air that quickly invaded his warm bedroom.

Dick Grayson smiled at him and climbed through the window frame like someone who did things like this all the time- like Nightwing made a habit of gently setting down abandoned backpacks by his bedroom desk.

“You left these,” he said. Tim watched him give the room a once over as the hero turned to close the window behind him. He tried to see his bedroom through Dick’s eyes- was he seeing the framed photographs, or the punk posters? The computer or the camera lens attachments?

Dick turned back to Tim and gave him the same treatment he had given the room, and then Tim had to wonder what he looked like. Pale? That was a given. Was he still shaking? Maybe. Did Dick see the boy he had helped train two weekends ago, or did he see a coward?

Dick came closer. Tim held his breath, not sure what to expect. Then, Dick raised his hand and slowly, gently, settled it on Tim’s shoulder.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Tim blinked. Inhaled. “What about Jason?” Shouldn’t they be talking about him? Jason had been screaming (god, Tim could hear it now). He had just run away.

Dick squeezed his shoulder lightly. “He’s…” A look passed over his face that Tim could not interpret, “Okay.” He gave the boy a half-smile. “He calmed down when Bruce came home.”

Tim had no idea how that qualified as okay. Mr. Wayne had been at WE. That was a half-hour from the manor. Had Jason been screaming the whole time?

“But we’re talking about you,” Dick said, bringing Tim’s attention back to him. He had dipped his head so he could look Tim in the eyes.

Tim met Dick’s gaze head on for a second before glancing away. Everyone at the manor made direct eye contact like that. It was weird.

“I’m fine,” he said automatically.

“Really?” Dick’s voice was light, but Tim could hear the doubt in it. “Because I was scared.”

Tim jerked his eyes back around. He had expected a confrontation, not an admission. The Waynes really were weird.

“My brother was screaming, and I couldn’t do anything,” Dick said heavily. He kept his voice fairly even, but Dick was such an emotive person that his tone failed to hide his feelings. “Nothing we tried worked until Bruce got there.”

Weird as the Waynes were, Tim still could recognize the helplessness that Dick felt. He felt that way a lot- when his parents shuffled him around without asking, seeing what kids did in alleys for money, listening to Jason scream. He relived the moment in fast-forward, and realization hit.

“It was my fault,” Tim said. “I got too close. I scared him.”

Dick tilted his head consideringly, bird-like. “Do you think?” he asked. Tim liked that about him- a lot of adults dismissed him because he was small, but Dick did not. Tim nodded. He was sure. The way Jason’s eyes had followed him… he was definitely scared of Tim.

“Well, we’ll just have to introduce you slowly,” Dick decided.

“What?” Tim jerked his head back to get a better look at Dick's face. Woah, he was serious.

“It's probably just because he doesn't know you," Dick said, all earnest sincerity.

“But… since Jason’s back… why would I…?”

Dick's face fell. He squeezed Tim's shoulder again. "We're not going to kick you to the curb just because Jason's back." His face pleaded with Tim, but for what, Tim did not know.

"But you don't need me anymore," he protested. "Jason will be Robin, and things will go back to the way they were before." What did Dick want from him? His function was gone, and his relationship with the Waynes was over.

Right?

Dick looked like he was about to cry. Tim had not seen anyone look so crushed since he had sneaked into Jason’s funeral. Dick’s emotions were confusing him. Why was he sad? Sure, Tim would be lonely again, but Dick was unaware of his home situation.

“I like you, baby bird,” Dick said softly. He talked like he was trying to coax a hurt animal, but Tim was not an animal nor was he hurt. “I’m not going to get rid of you just because Jason’s back.”

Tim still had questions. Did Mr. Wayne agree? How would Jason feel? He had screamed just at the sight of Tim. And-

“What about Robin?” he asked.

At that, Dick sighed. He dropped his hand from Tim’s shoulder and finally looked away.

“Jason might not want to be Robin… if he’s even ever well enough to go out again.” He said the last part in a near whisper, like if he said it quietly enough, it would not be real. Tim heard him anyway.

Finally, Tim’s confusion cleared away. That was the real reason they wanted him back, even if Dick was weirdly sincere. He could train to be a back-up Robin, in case Jason either did not want the cape or never got well enough to wear it again. Or, maybe with Jason back, Batman’s level of violence would go down even without Robin, and Tim could step back anyway.

He could work with that.

“I’ll be there tomorrow,” he promised, and let Dick pull him into a hug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love each and every comment!


	5. Alfred

Christmas this year had brought an incredible period of peace to Gotham. Masters Bruce and Richard had even returned early from their patrol the prior evening. As far as Alfred was concerned, that was the second miracle of the season. 

Master Jason had returned, both to life and to the manor, bringing with him the greatest joy Alfred had ever known. In moments of solitude, he wondered if such sublime happiness was possible without the depths of sorrow the household had trawled over the seven months of Jason’s absence. 

Such things were best left to philosophers, he had decided. And so, being decidedly not of that number, Alfred kept to his chosen duties. Early this Christmas morning, that included pouring a complete protein smoothie into a glass. He brought the glass upstairs on a tray, which he shifted to one hand so he could knock quietly at the door. He waited hopefully for an answer, but when none came, he turned the handle and slipped inside the room. 

“Good morning, Master Jason,” he greeted evenly, “and happy Christmas.” Master Jason continued sleeping. That was typical. Alfred did not sigh in disappointment. The boy was still healing, and so he should be expected to sleep often and deeply. 

Alfred sat in the chair beside the bed. He carefully secured a napkin over Master Jason’s shirtfront before stroking the curls away from his skin. The more time he spent recuperating in this room, the paler he became. At the moment, he was quite the far cry from the tanned and active boy Alfred had known. 

“Master Jason,” Alfred said firmly. “I have breakfast here for you.” When that failed to wake him, Alfred reached over, careful to keep the tray balanced on his lap. He placed both hands on the lad’s cheeks and used his thumbs to make strong strokes over them. 

“It is time to wake up now,” he insisted. To his relief, Master Jason woke slowly. His eyes fluttered open unevenly, first one and then the other. 

There was no other reaction from the young master. His eyes were out of focus, occasionally making random saccades before staring again into nothing. 

This, too, was typical. 

Alfred lifted the glass and brought the straw to Master Jason’s mouth. Master Jason accepted the food mechanically, latching onto the straw and drinking his food steadily. He was not perfect- when he finished, some of the smoothie dribbled out of his mouth onto his face. Alfred used the napkin to wipe it away. 

“Well done, Master Jason,” he praised. He continued their morning routine by changing the young master into day clothes, which consisted of loose sweat clothes. Where Master Richard was happy to lay about in his sleep clothes all day, Master Jason had been particular about differentiating between his sleep wear and his day wear. Alfred was happy to facilitate this for him. 

He had just finished switching out various bags for the boy when Master Richard came bounding into the room. 

“It’s Christmas!” he said excitedly, much the same way he had when he was eleven. His face fell when he saw that Master Jason had fallen asleep again. 

“He was awake for his breakfast earlier,” Alfred offered. 

Master Richard exhaled, a new stiffness to his shoulders. He put on a clearly strained half-smile. 

“Good. That’s good.” 

Alfred sympathized. While Master Jason’s return had brought great joy, his prolonged convalescence was putting a new kind of strain on the household. The longer he persisted like this, the less likely it was that he would ever recover. 

“If you will be so good as to keep your brother company, I will be cooking breakfast for the next ten minutes,” Alfred said pointedly, giving the elder brother tacit permission to bother his father into wakefulness. He was rewarded when Master Richard’s childish grin returned. 

“Sure thing, Alfred,” he said. He sat down next to his brother carefully. “Jaybird,” he said in a deliberate stage whisper. “I think we gotta stage a jailbreak. Alf really outdid himself this year on the decorations. You don’t want to miss those.” 

Listening to him carry on soothed an old man’s heart. By the time Alfred had readied a warm breakfast and returned- an exception made only for the holiday and in deference to Master Jason’s inclusion and health- Master Bruce was there, watching his children with a reluctantly fond expression. 

“Merry Christmas, Alfred,” he greeted, using the manners Alfred had worked so hard to perfect in him. “Is that coffee?” 

“Indeed, Master Bruce. Happy Christmas.” Alfred brought the tray to Master Bruce so he could select his coffee and his breakfast. 

“And hot chocolate for the young masters,” he added, turning around so the boys could take their portion. Master Richard, good lad that he was, helped Master Jason drink his hot chocolate first with the aid of a straw. He collected the dishware after the family had finished eating; however, he was only gone long enough to set the dishwasher running. If he did not return for Christmas morning, both Masters Bruce and Richard would have a conniption. 

“Alfred’s back!” Master Richard cheered when he returned. He took a seat in one of the three armchairs which had been moved into the bedroom. If the manor were less generously sized, the room would have been in danger of becoming cramped between the chairs and the holiday decorations Alfred had placed. Never let it be said that Alfred had not done his best to make the Christmas of Master Jason’s return as splendid as possible, not that the lad had been in a condition to notice either the current Christmas decorations or those for Hannukah that had come and gone since his arrival. 

“Mine first!” Master Richard scrambled off the bed in a manner most unbecoming; and yet, Alfred could not help but smile. He retrieved his gifts from under the modest tree by the desk and handed them out. Master Bruce seemed surprised when he received a gift, as he had every year since their fighting began. Alfred, likewise, had been subjected to Master Richard’s worry and frustration on the matter every year. 

Alfred was aware of his gift- a gently used copy of an East-West fusion cookbook that promised to be interesting- but he unwrapped it and thanked Master Richard as if he was surprised. Master Richard seemed amused by his little pantomime, even though he was currently occupied by showing Master Jason his gift, a lovely fleece Wonder Woman throw blanket, which he tucked tenderly around his brother; Master Jason displayed no reaction to this. 

Master Bruce, meanwhile, was gently tracing the faces in the framed picture in his hands. Master Richard must have retrieved it from storage, as Alfred had a distinct memory of putting away that picture of the four of them at last year’s Christmas, following Jason’s death. Master Bruce looked from the frame to his real, living sons. Alfred could see the traces of self-recrimination in his face. 

“It is high time we put that up again,” Alfred said. 

Master Bruce cleared his throat. “Yes. Yes, that’s a good idea. Thank you, Dick,” he said softly. Master Richard only nodded awkwardly and continued fussing over his brother. 

Master Bruce leveraged himself out of his chair. “That makes it my turn.” In true Master Bruce fashion, he had bought a truly absurd amount of gifts, each more extravagant than the last. The boys were absolutely covered in gifts, Master Jason literally so, since soft and warm fabrics were the only things he could truly appreciate at the moment. Besides, the manor had been drafty and chilly of late, and such gifts could not hurt. 

“This is the last one,” Master Bruce said, handing a thin box to Master Richard. He was visibly nervous, and Alfred had to agree he should be. He resisted the urge to put his head in his hands. This was not what he had meant when he said Master Bruce should talk to the boy!

Master Richard opened the box.His expression quickly cycled through confusion and joy before settling on stone. 

“What is this?” he asked, and Alfred could hear the dangerous quiet in his voice. 

“Adoption papers,” Master Bruce answered. 

“I can see that,” Master Richard said, still quiet. The tension in the room was ramping up. Alfred hoped they refrained from fighting, for Master Jason’s sake. “Why now?” Both men were metaphorically raising their hackles, each on the defensive. 

“Don’t you want it?” Master Bruce asked. 

“Do you?” Master Richard shot back. 

At times like these, Alfred wished it was possible to simply force the family to act sensibly. Masters Bruce and Richard both wanted the adoption, that was plain as day. But, Master Bruce failed to communicate his feelings, and Master Richard had no interest in his adoption being some sort of emotional pawn. 

“Gentlemen,” Alfred interrupted, “You will not fight in front of Master Jason. Either calm yourselves or leave the room.” And on Christmas too, Alfred thought mournfully. 

Master Bruce exhaled slowly and looked away. Master Richard, similarly, refused to make eye contact. Neither spoke. 

They were not fighting, Alfred had to give that to them at least; however, they were not solving the situation, either. He could say something, but he doubted that would help matters. 

Master Richard let out a deep sigh. “What is this, Bruce?” he asked again, resigned this time. “This doesn’t just fix things.” 

Master Bruce seemed surprised that was not the case. “I thought… Jason said you were upset I adopted him and not you.” 

Master Richard looked taken aback. He blinked. “That was three years ago, Bruce.” 

Master Bruce shifted in his chair. “Yes, well… you weren’t talking to me, then. So, I thought…” 

Alfred could fill in the blanks easily enough, especially since Master Bruce had talked his ear off on the subject. Master Bruce had thought to seize his chance, since Master Richard was staying in the manor again. 

Master Richard did not reach the same conclusion. “You thought that the papers would make me happy. And then what? I would be your sidekick?” He sneered. 

Just as Master Bruce took a deep breath to begin what would, in all likelihood, be a truly spectacular match, Alfred interrupted. 

“Manners.” 

Master Bruce deflated, and Master Richard closed his eyes, each trying to control himself. 

“Right. Sorry, Alf,” Master Richard apologize. Alfred tilted his head towards the young man’s father. “Sorry, Bruce,” Master Richard muttered, much less sincere. 

Master Bruce rubbed his hands over his face. A hint of concern entered Master Richard’s face at the blatant display of distress. Quiet reigned for several minutes. Alfred was about to begin passing out his presents when-

“Do you want this?” Master Richard asked for the second time. He cut off his father when he opened his mouth. “Not just for me. For you,” he said emphatically. 

Poor, inept Master Bruce looked quite lost, but faintly hopeful. “I… yes.” 

“And you know this doesn’t fix everything?” 

“Yes.” Master Bruce’s answer was much stronger this time. 

Master Richard hesitated, and though Alfred had no doubts about the outcome, he could see the moment stretch out for an eternity for his grown charge. 

“Then… okay.” 

The stress evaporated off Master Bruce’s shoulders. “Okay,” he said, a small smile growing on his face. Alfred could see the radiant happiness beneath it. 

“Jesus Christ, come here,” Master Richard swore. He pulled Master Bruce out of his chair- no small feat, given the difference in their sizes- and into a hug. 

Alfred seized the moment to quietly pass out his gifts. Master Richard had consented to the adoption, Master Jason was home, and young Mister Timothy had an invitation to come later after he had fulfilled his own holiday traditions. 

“See, Master Jason?” he said quietly, tucking yet another blanket around him. “It has turned out to be a very happy Christmas after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Bruce is Jewish; yes, I love comments :D


	6. Leslie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my guest beta SimplyEssa here on ao3  
Check end of chapter notes for warnings

Dr. Leslie Thompkins’s patients were the poorest of the poor. They were the skinny, underfed children, the babies with bed-bug rashes, the adults with the flu they wanted to get rid of and the addictions they wanted to keep.

She opened her clinic doors to her patients early and closed them late: she took her lunch break while reviewing test results, spent her evenings emailing pharmacies for discounts, and watched as a childhood cough became adolescent asthma, became adult pneumonia, became an early grave. 

She was far, far too busy to making housecalls, not to her patients in their lead-painted apartments, and certainly not to the wealthy out in their distance suburbs, but Leslie made time for the Waynes, as a favor to her late friend Thomas and the work his son did. If that meant a pre-dawn appointment at her Crime Alley clinic to set a broken arm or a housecall to Bristol for emergency surgery, so be it. 

Which was why she was here, parked at the front entrance of Wayne Manor. The air out here lacked the smoke and smog of the inner city, so she took in a deep breath before turning and grabbing the case for the cast saw from the front seat.

Normally, if Batman or his hatchlings needed to use equipment they lacked in the cave (which was better stocked than some ERs Leslie had seen), they made an appointment with Leslie at her clinic. Never had she been asked to bring equipment to the manor for a matter that was less than urgent, and she had been repeatedly assured by Bruce that this was not urgent. 

She had to wonder, as she towed her bags up the front steps, what the exact circumstances of her visit were. 

"Alfred," she greeted at the front door. "What do you have for me today?" The door shut behind them, and she was too occupied with juggling her saw and her personal bag to see him turn his eyes heavenward and sigh silently. 

"Master Jason needs his casts removed," he said. 

Leslie fumbled the saw case, nearly dropping it. Her heart plummeted, and she felt sick. 

She still had nightmares about the autopsy; his organs wet and slippery beneath her hands, the smell of his burned skin, his baby face cold and still on her table. 

Alfred spoke, but her ears were filled with buzzing. He took the saw from her and ushered her to a chair so she could gather herself. She gulped the glass of water he brought her, placing a hand over her heart and feeling it slow to its normal rhythm. 

She looked at the butler with a worn and weary gaze. "Jason?" she asked. The name tasted like ash in her mouth. Jason was dead. That sweet little boy who used to pick up his mother's medicine at her clinic was dead. 

"Master Jason is alive and upstairs," Alfred told her.

Impossible. Leslie's mind jumped to delusions and social contagion. The Waynes were ill, she was certain.

"Alfred, can you tell me what year it is?" she asked. 

The look he gave her was distinctly unimpressed, but he answered her question. "I can also tell you that it is winter in January, that today is Thursday the 2nd, that it is approximately eight o'clock in the evening, and that we are in Wayne Manor in Gotham. Need I go on?" 

Alfred was oriented to person and place, that was clear, but she was sure there was something more going on. Her face must have betrayed her skepticism, because Alfred did go on. 

"Master Jason is alive, and he is upstairs. You may see him for yourself. However-" and here, Alfred paused before forging on- "He is not well." 

This whole manor was _ not well _ . Jason Todd was _ dead _. 

"Show me," she demanded. She needed to see what they had upstairs. She set off at a quick march, but Alfred's more measured, polite pace slowed her down. She itched with anticipation, wanting to get this over with already. They would all receive home visits from a psychiatrist in the near future. Bruce could afford the treatment. 

Alfred knocked at a door down one of the manor's many hallways. "Dr. Thompkins to see-" he began, but Leslie seized the door from him and pushed her way in before he could finish. Her gaze was drawn straight to the bed and the boy that lay there. 

Her first thought was that they had dug up the corpse. She felt sick again, but then she noticed the color in the cheeks and the rise and fall of the chest. Her second thought was that they had some poor boy held hostage and were calling him Jason. She felt a different sort of sick for a brief moment.

She stepped forward, ready to end this farce, but she realized the resemblance was too uncanny to be a fake. Her head began spinning. She swore she could feel her neurons firing and they made connections that didn't make sense. 

"Sit down, doc," someone said. She felt something hit the back of her legs and someone's hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off. She plowed forward, aiming her fingers for his carotid, but her wrist was caught before she could make contact. She looked up, ready to make them let go. 

Bruce met her gaze evenly. "Careful, Leslie," he warned. "He's not comfortable with everyone." 

"He's my patient," Leslie snapped, wrenching her hand away, although she did heed the warning. She watched the boy's face as she rested her hand on his carotid artery and then over his chest. His heartbeat was strong and steady, not like in her nightmares where she held it in her hand, feeling the panicked, dying beat as his terrified eyes watched.

She undid the buttons on his shirt. The dark scar seemed unreal, somehow more impossible than the rest of this waking dream, but when she placed her palm down on his chest, she could feel the thick, raised ridge of it. 

She jolted to her senses. She was a professional, and this was not an appropriate position. She buttoned up his shirt quickly and took out her ponytail so she could run a hand through her hair. 

"Bruce, with me," she ordered, matching out of the room and doing up her hair again in the same stride. She shut the door behind them and wheeled on him in the hallway. 

"What the hell were you thinking?" she spat. She wanted to yell, god, she wanted to yell, but she was hyper aware of Jason sleeping in the next room. "How long has he been here?" 

"Four weeks," he answered, as though it were a non-sequitur at a party.

"Four weeks!" Leslie repeated, incredulous and angry, only for Bruce to cut her off. 

"But he was in the hospital for four weeks before then."

"And you're just telling me- no, you didn't even tell me." She stared him down, letting him feel the full weight of her disappointment and frustration. Bruce said nothing. His face didn't move. His body language was perfectly still. They stared at each other, neither willing to budge. 

"Give me his chart," she ordered. "I know you have it, and I want it." 

Bruce was a little too quick to leave, letting her know that he had been uncomfortable. 

Good. He should be. 

She followed behind him, taking the chart from his grip. She went through it quickly, noting the injuries, their treatment, and his progression. There were other notes, of course, because this was Bruce. There were notes about his diet and about his reactions to various stimuli, including a series of notes of his interactions with a boy named Tim. 

Leslie took her time with them. There were two months of documentation, and she did not want to miss anything. She closed the chart and looked at the family. 

“I want to do a quick neuro review before removing the casts on his arms.” The provided X-ray, likely done by the mobile unit she knew Bruce possessed, showed that his arms and ribs were healed while his legs were still healing but progressing normally. However, she was much more concerned about the psychological notes that had been taken since Jason had awakened from his coma. 

Bruce nodded his consent. "I'll wake him," he said. He laid a hand on Jason's forehead. "Jason," he called, firmly but softly. "Wake up, son." 

Leslie hovered over them, watching closely as Jason opened his eyes. Did he understand his father, or was he responding to the touch?

"Good lad," Bruce praised. He over-enunciated his words, as people tended to do when one party had comprehension difficulties. "Dr. Thompkins is here to see you. Do you remember her?" 

Jason said nothing. His eyes flicked over Leslie. It might have been chance or might have been acknowledgement. She had no way of knowing. 

Bruce sat back a little with a pleased smile. She recalled the file and understood that he must have been worried that Jason would scream at the sight of her. Bruce moved back, and Leslie took her place beside Jason. 

"Jason, I'm going to do a few tests. I want you to follow my finger." She ran her index finger across his field of vision one way and then the other. She brought it out and then she brought it in. His eyes met her finger a few times, but they quickly saccaded away, looking at something else in the room or nothing at all. 

Inconclusive. 

She snapped her fingers by one ear and then the other. Jason made no indication he had heard anything. He didn't even turn his head. 

Negative. 

Finally, she said, "Jason. I want you to blink twice." His eyes continued to bumble about the room aimlessly. He almost looked like he was about to fall asleep again. 

Negative. 

She withheld a sigh and looked at Bruce. He was the picture of a man on the edge, waiting for good news or bad. He was perched on the edge of his chair, his fingers curled over the armrests tightly, and his intent on hers. 

"It's too early to say," she told him. "It's possible that once he regains some mobility we'll see signs that he's recovering mentally." 

"And if not?" Bruce asked. 

"Then we'd need an EEG to be sure, but-" she drew on all her professionalism- "It's possible he's in a vegetative state and won't recover more than he already has." They needed to be prepared for the future, whatever it was. For Jason. 

The room was silent for a moment. Bruce bowed his head, almost like he was praying. 

"And there's nothing we can do?" Dick asked. He sounded desperate and painfully young. 

Leslie shook her head. "Not if that's the case, but it’s possible he's only in a minimally conscious state, or possibly in another condition that I can't diagnose because I don't have the data." She waved a hand at Jason's healing body. "Continue doing what you have been, and add some physical therapy for his arms and hands. I know you're familiar with the techniques." 

Bruce looked up. "We'll do that. His casts?" 

Alfred presented a black case to her. “Your saw, doctor,” he said formally. Leslie nodded her thanks and got her tools set up. When she was done, Bruce was sitting by the head of the bed, stroking Jason’s hair. 

“Ready?” Leslie asked and started the saw. The change in Jason was immediate. His eyes flew open wide and he began trying to sit up, despite eight weeks of muscle atrophy. 

Bruce shushed him, grabbing his face in both hands so that Jason had no choice but to look at him. 

“Shh, it’s okay. It’s just Dr. Thompkins. She’s going to take off your casts. You’re safe.” Whether or not this was comforting to Jason was unclear. His rapid puffs of breath changed into a high pitched whine that Leslie could hear over the saw, but he did stop struggling. She was grateful as Dick held his arm still over the table. She turned off the saw and pulled out a cast spreader to split the cast open fully. Jason relaxed minutely before the loud _ crack _echoed through the room, then he whimpered and tried to hide in his father’s expansive embrace. 

With Dick’s assistance, Leslie quickly removed the cast from the other arm. She packed her bag just as rapidly, feeling that Jason would feel better when she and her tools were out of the room. She beckoned Dick out into the hall with her. He shot a glance at his brother, who was now gripping onto Bruce’s shirtsleeve with his newly freed fingers, before following. 

“That was a good sign,” she said, feeling relieved. Jason was doing better than she had initially thought. 

“What?” Dick asked, affronted. “He’s-”

“Showing an emotional response to external stimuli and making voluntary movements.” She saw understanding and hope dawn over Dick’s face, like the sun moving from behind a cloud. “I can’t make any promises, but I think it’s reasonable to expect he’ll improve from where he is now.” 

Dick smiled widely, and Leslie could see a film of tears settle on his lower lashes. 

“Doc…” He got choked up and had to swallow. “That’s great news.” 

Leslie nodded, feeling similarly choked up. “I’ll send Bruce my availability for Jason’s next appointment, and I’ll see myself out. Happy New Year.” 

Dick’s hand was already on the door, nearly bouncing with how eager he was to tell his family the news. 

“You, too. Happy New Year.” 

And he was gone. 

It really was a good start to the new year, Leslie thought as she made her way back to her car. 

It really, really was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for mild gore related to autopsy  
we're almost done with this arc! leave a comment and i'll give you love!


	7. Jason

Jason's waking periods were slow-moving and hazy. They slipped through his fingers like the last dream before waking. Time bled into itself in a series of moments that made sense without making any sense at all. 

Bruce was in the batsuit, hand pressed a hand to Jason’s face. 

He heard crying. He thought it was Dick, but he had no idea why he sounded like someone had died. 

There was a boy, a stranger, in his face and in his home. Jason screamed, until his throat was raw, until his father came and made him safe again. 

* * *

Waking took on a pattern. He was always tired, and he was always ensconced within the safe, familiar confines of his bedroom. His family was there usually there to talk words at him or read from books, even though Jason would be content to stare vaguely at the wall. 

Dick brought the stranger boy around sometimes but always kept him in hand at the far end of the room. Jason thought, maybe, the boy might be okay. 

The man and the woman lingered, even when no one else was there. He had no memory of their names, but he knew them. The contradiction hurt his head, the way Dick’s crying hurt his heart, and Alfred’s solemn face hurt his soul. 

Bruce did not hurt him. Bruce was a rock in a flowing river, water in the desert, and shelter in the forest. Bruce was home, and Bruce was safe. 

* * *

The doctor was an interruption in the pattern. Jason knew her. He didn’t care about anything else until she pulled out a saw, and the light bounced off the metal and the noise rang in his ears and there was no escape, just the threat of blinding light and heat and- 

Bruce was safe. Bruce made him safe. 

* * *

The doctor’s visit heralded changes for Jason. He did not want to change. He liked his pattern, the safety of it. 

It changed anyway.

Now, Bruce started each visit by sitting at the edge of Jason’s bed and massaging his hands gently. He said things while he worked, but Jason had trouble understanding. He never responded, regardless. Bruce placed a ball in his hand and wrapped his own hand around Jason’s to squeeze it. The day Jason did it on his own, Bruce beamed and ruffled his hair.

The doctor came a second time, and Jason hated it just as much as the first. 

There were more changes after that. Bruce started doing the same thing to his legs, massaging them before moving to his ankles, stretching and flexing them at various intervals. Bruce liked to do… whatever it was himself, but sometimes, the addition fell to Alfred to complete. Even Dick did it once. He tickled Jason’s feet, and Jason did not understand why Dick smiled so widely when he kicked his brother for it. 

Bruce took a particular pleasure in guiding him out of the room. Jason hated the way he tripped and his legs shook. Bruce deposited him in the library if he intended to stay, or in the kitchen with Alfred if he did not. Once he got better at being prompted, Alfred started to ask him to help in the kitchen. Jason used to like cooking with the butler, but now his weak fingers ached with the tension it took to spread peanut butter over bread. To top it off, Dick liked to find Jason and cheerfully try to harass him into talking, even if he only got single syllables in return.

Jason was not happy with this turn of events. He expressed his displeasure by pretending to fall asleep until he actually did. He fell asleep in a library armchair, on the sitting room couch, over the kitchen counter. When he woke up, he was usually in his bed. He considered that a success. 

* * *

“He’s been looking at us quite a bit lately,” the man said as Bruce lead Jason toward the steps to the foyer. Jason squeezed his hands tightly as he wobbled and nearly fell. He pulled up short, breathing heavily and refusing to move. 

His dad only readjusted his grip. “Take a minute,” he said kindly. Jason exhaled in relief. “And then we can go again.” Asshole. 

The man and the woman walked around to stare at his red face. “Oh, maybe he’s sensitive, like Dick. Do you think he can hear us?” She patted the man’s arm, looking excited. 

The words were hard to focus on, when Jason was already tired, but he’d been getting better at paying attention lately. He had more energy when he woke up from all the naps he took. 

Jason focused on breathing and not falling down. He leaned his weight on his father’s arms, and his eyes fell on the portrait hanging above them. Bruce had changed a lot. Thomas and Martha had not aged a day. 

His mouth gaped open, and he looked wildly from Bruce to his parents. They were dead. He knew that. It was a  _ fact _ . It was a fact like Bruce was the Batman, or Dick liked cereal.

“What is it, son?” Bruce asked, all patient concern. 

Jason shifted his balance, holding harder onto Bruce with his left hand so he could point with his right. Surely, he could see them. They were right there, after all. They had been there for… for… for a long time, he was sure.

"Jason, sweetheart, " Martha asked haltingly. She stepped closer to him and Bruce. "Can you see us?"

Bruce turned to look where Jason was pointing, and Jason happened to nod while his head was turned. 

“There’s nothing there,” Bruce said. He frowned at Jason. He reached out to put a hand on his head. He moved slowly, like Jason would startle if he did not. Gently, he moved his hand down to cup Jason's face. He tilted his son’s head so he could look into his eyes. 

His gaze darted back to Thomas and Martha. He squirmed out of Bruce’s grip and glared at them. 

"You can see us!" Martha said, hand over her heart. Thomas smiled affectionately at his wife and placed his hand on her back, just like it was in the portrait. She sighed. "But you don't remember. That's probably for the best. Yes, that's us," she continued. "We're your grandparents." 

Jason developed a headache as he tried to understand. They were dead, but they were alive. His head gave a particularly vicious throb, and he glared at them. This was their fault. They had lied, or something. They had spent years, decades running off on their own, leaving Bruce behind. That was unforgivable. 

"It's alright," Martha said calmly, like Jason wasn’t about to kick her goddamn ass. "We're not going to hurt you." She took a step forward, and his glare and his headache intensified. 

Bruce wrapped an arm around him securely. “Come on, Jaylad,” he coaxed. Bruce wanted him to follow like a nice young man, but Jason wasn’t having it. He struggled, freeing himself. He stumbled a little, moving closer toward the stairs, but he managed to steady himself and stand under his own power.

He looked from them to Bruce as Bruce reached out to him, surprised at Jason’s sudden movements. Why couldn’t Bruce see them? They were right there. 

"He can't see us," Thomas chimed in. Jason frowned. It didn’t make sense, but something inside him said it was right, like Bruce supposed to be unable to see them. The contradiction made his head hurt. 

"We died, darling," Martha said. "We're ghosts." 

Bullshit. That was total bullshit. Jason saw red. Ghosts weren’t fucking real. They were just liars who abandoned their kid. He lunged forward and swung his fist at Thomas. 

He missed. Somehow.

"Jason?" Bruce. He probably disliked that Jason was trying to punch his parents, but they fucking deserved it. He heard footsteps on the stairs as Dick and Alfred appeared, attracted by the commotion. 

"Don't hurt yourself!" Martha cried. Jason ignored her, too focused on balancing himself on the railing before he tipped over. 

Jason turned for another punch, only to be caught by Bruce. 

"It's okay, son," he murmured. His voice reverberated deep in his chest as he sank them to the floor. 

Thomas knelt in front of Jason, blocking him from the staircase. He ignored the boy's renewed struggles to get at him. 

"My apologies in advance," he said politely. "This will be uncomfortable." 

He stretched his hand forward. Jason's attempts to knock it aside failed and he still did not understand how. He kept struggling until Thomas's hand went  _ into _ his chest. Jason jerked away, away from the reality-bending sight and the freezing cold that came with it. He curled into Bruce, ignoring the concerned voices overhead, and shuddered. His whole body jerked, trying to fight the way his insides had turned to ice, until he finally went limp. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of this arc! but don't worry, there's more to come  
Leave a comment, they help inspire me! Thanks so much for all your support

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Guide Me Safely Through the Night [podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21040070) by [litrapod (litra)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/litra/pseuds/litrapod)


End file.
